A lot of people took advantage of the long Memorial Day weekend to relax. To welcome summer by getting together with family and friends. To eat large slabs of meat cooked over an open flame, drink cold beverages and think patriotic thoughts.
Not me.
By 8:30 a.m. last Friday I had embarked along with my father and brother on a leg-deadening, butt-numbing and ultimately frustrating attempt to ride a bicycle from St. Paul to Chicago.
That's 450 miles. In three days. I never said it was a good plan.
The trip started well enough. Aside from a steady east-southeast wind blowing in our faces the weather was about perfect as we set off down Summit Avenue with a mixture of enthusiasm and confusion about how, exactly, we had talked ourselves into this.
Day One was unremarkable. There were a few healthy-sized hills early on but the bulk of the riding was on relatively flat roads along the Mississippi River. If not for the 150-mile distance it was the kind of pleasant, scenic ride a sane person might take.
Day Two was another story altogether. At 130 miles it was shorter than the trip's first day. But it also took us through south central Wisconsin, a region with topography clearly designed by someone who enjoys pastoral scenery but hates bicycles and everything associated with them. We climbed more big hills than Sir Edmund Hillary. We were up and down more than John Travolta's career.
Put it this way, when something called Wildcat Mountain isn't even one of the day's five biggest hills it says something about the route. And not something encouraging.
Through it all the wind kept blowing in our face. It was like pedaling a stationary bike in a wind tunnel, but more painful.
In the end, the wind and the hills were too much. At least with the prospect of a 170-mile ride looming on the third day. Eighty miles in, demonstrating for the first time in the weekend something resembling common sense, my brother and I called for a ride. Our father continued on. He might say he was more determined than we were. I can think of some other words that work better.
I was disappointed with my decision almost immediately, even though I knew saving energy for the third day's ride made sense. And that's what I told myself right up until the time we decided a third day of riding unreasonable distances into yet another stiff east wind was more trouble than it was worth.
It seems like we could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble and figured that out at the beginning. Better late than never, I guess.
The trip ended with a Sunday morning car ride from Madison to Chicago. We ate lunch at a restaurant rather than standing outside a convenience store. We sat on seats designed for comfort rather than weight savings. It was an imminently more sensible way to travel.
There were bumps the rest of the way. The hotel didn't have our rooms ready when it was supposed to. The bar wasn't open when it was supposed to be. But at least we could sit without pain.
Despite the hard work, it wasn't a bad way to spend the long weekend. We didn't get to grill or sit in a lawn chair, but we accomplished something, even if it wasn't exactly what we set out to do.
And we woke up Monday morning to a strong west wind.
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - Aeroplane Blues
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Spend for America!
My economic stimulus check has so far been less than stimulating.
I was as excited as anyone when I found out a few months ago that $600 would soon show up in my bank account. Who wouldn't be? Someone wanted to give me money not because I contributed anything of value to society but simply because I exist. It's like any given day in the life of Paris Hilton.
At the time, I had visions of making calls on a shiny new iPhone, finally framing some of the posters I have stashed in the closet of my home office or undergoing unnecessary surgical procedures, all in the name of shoring up the strength of the dollar. Who needs a spleen when the American economy is hurting?
But a funny thing happened between the day the free money was promised and the day it actually appeared in my bank account. I paid bills. Lots of them. And with each mortgage payment and natural gas bill and insurance premium I watched my bank balance fall lower than the Timber-wolves chances of getting a decent player in the upcoming NBA draft.
I wasn't having MC Hammer-level problems or anything, but all of a sudden I didn't feel like I was in the kind of position where frivolous spending seemed like a good idea. Not even in the name of spreading truth, justice and the conspicuous consumption way.
So, ever since that money showed up in my checking account it's done nothing but sit there. It has not brought me high-end consumer electronics products. My walls are still largely bare. And I haven't had so much as a mole removed.
I bring this up now because I feel like I owe America an apology. I was not given this money to selfishly save for my own future. It did not appear as if by magic in my bank account so I could buy boring things like food or gas or beef jerky. When my bank accepted that electronic transfer on my behalf it came with an unspoken demand: in the name of all that's mass produced and disposable, spend like a drunken socialite. And in that I have failed miserably.
I want to make up for my shortcomings, America.
Well, one of my shortcomings. We really don't have time to go into everything else right now.
America, I will shop like I've never shopped before. I'll buy things I never imagined I needed, like a pet urn with a built-in digital photo frame. I haven't had a pet in years, but if I get a dog someday and it dies tragically in an incident involving a clown, a pony and an ill-timed game of fetch (Or something. I don't know.) then what better way to pay tribute than a $250 wood box with a built-in screen that displays low-resolution photos.
I will spend $300 on ESPN's so-called ultimate remote control, because I've lived far too long without a device capable of simultaneously changing the channel to SportsCenter and sending angry e-mails to Kevin McHale.
I will buy things I don't need. Things I don't want. I will buy things nobody could ever possibly use. Why just get an iPhone when for just a few thousand dollars more you can get one encased in gold or caked with crystals? Horribly ugly, sure, but think of all the economic good you'll be doing.
I might even buy a copy of Windows Vista.
We're all in this together America. Now, what do you say we all go out for ice cream. I'm buying.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
I was as excited as anyone when I found out a few months ago that $600 would soon show up in my bank account. Who wouldn't be? Someone wanted to give me money not because I contributed anything of value to society but simply because I exist. It's like any given day in the life of Paris Hilton.
At the time, I had visions of making calls on a shiny new iPhone, finally framing some of the posters I have stashed in the closet of my home office or undergoing unnecessary surgical procedures, all in the name of shoring up the strength of the dollar. Who needs a spleen when the American economy is hurting?
But a funny thing happened between the day the free money was promised and the day it actually appeared in my bank account. I paid bills. Lots of them. And with each mortgage payment and natural gas bill and insurance premium I watched my bank balance fall lower than the Timber-wolves chances of getting a decent player in the upcoming NBA draft.
I wasn't having MC Hammer-level problems or anything, but all of a sudden I didn't feel like I was in the kind of position where frivolous spending seemed like a good idea. Not even in the name of spreading truth, justice and the conspicuous consumption way.
So, ever since that money showed up in my checking account it's done nothing but sit there. It has not brought me high-end consumer electronics products. My walls are still largely bare. And I haven't had so much as a mole removed.
I bring this up now because I feel like I owe America an apology. I was not given this money to selfishly save for my own future. It did not appear as if by magic in my bank account so I could buy boring things like food or gas or beef jerky. When my bank accepted that electronic transfer on my behalf it came with an unspoken demand: in the name of all that's mass produced and disposable, spend like a drunken socialite. And in that I have failed miserably.
I want to make up for my shortcomings, America.
Well, one of my shortcomings. We really don't have time to go into everything else right now.
America, I will shop like I've never shopped before. I'll buy things I never imagined I needed, like a pet urn with a built-in digital photo frame. I haven't had a pet in years, but if I get a dog someday and it dies tragically in an incident involving a clown, a pony and an ill-timed game of fetch (Or something. I don't know.) then what better way to pay tribute than a $250 wood box with a built-in screen that displays low-resolution photos.
I will spend $300 on ESPN's so-called ultimate remote control, because I've lived far too long without a device capable of simultaneously changing the channel to SportsCenter and sending angry e-mails to Kevin McHale.
I will buy things I don't need. Things I don't want. I will buy things nobody could ever possibly use. Why just get an iPhone when for just a few thousand dollars more you can get one encased in gold or caked with crystals? Horribly ugly, sure, but think of all the economic good you'll be doing.
I might even buy a copy of Windows Vista.
We're all in this together America. Now, what do you say we all go out for ice cream. I'm buying.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Name that tune?
I feel like I used to know more about music.
It's not that I was ever any kind of expert. I could never have told you who else was on the bill when Dylan went electric, or what the Kingsmen are singing in Louie Louie or what, exactly, living la vida loca entails (presumably a lot of ointment). But I used to at least know the names of the songs I was listening to.
Set the bar low. That's what I always say.
These days, though, I struggle to maintain even that much knowledge. I've bought three CDs in the last month or so and listened to each of them multiple times. I've enjoyed each of them, some a lot. And yet, off the top of my head I can come up with the titles for maybe four songs. And to be fair, that's largely because in three of them the song's title is featured in the song to an almost ridiculous degrees. For example, here's the chorus to the Black Keys song Lies: "Lies, lies, lies, oh lies." Taking credit for getting that one right feels a little like taking credit for predictions like, "I bet we'll have a new President in January" or "I bet some celebrity will get a lot of publicity for doing something embarrassing this week." It just feels hollow.
There are songs I like a lot on each of those three CDs but I'll be damned if I could name them for you.
By contrast, with roughly the same amount of thought I was able to come up with five song titles from REM's 1992 classic Automatic for the People even though I haven't listened to that CD in at least a year.
I'm not sure what this says about me as a music listener. I still believe music is important, and I still enjoy discovering new artists. But the way I listen to music is different than it used to be.
Back in my younger days I'd get a new CD or, let's face it, cassette — but only rarely an eight-track — and pop it into the player. I'd sit and listen to it while scanning through the liner notes to see if they'd included lyrics or photos or free gum or anything.
These days the liner notes don't always even make it out of the case. That is, if I have them at all.
Technology has changed things. With more and more people buying their music online, physical packaging is becoming less common. Those last three CDs I bought all involved me going to the store and bringing a CD home, but the purchased music file in my iTunes player has more than 250 songs. And even when I buy an actual CD the second thing I do usually involves transferring the music to my computer.
The first thing I do is listen to the CD in my car on the way home, but that's a process that doesn't much lend itself to in-depth reading.
The third thing I usually do is dance around in my underpants like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, but that's really neither here nor there.
One by one, it seems, song titles are being moved out of my brain and into my iPod playlist. They're still there, but I'm usually devoting my attention to something else, anyway.
I suppose this isn't all bad. Eliminating the song title section of my brain frees up more space to remember things like credit card numbers or recipes for mixed drinks.
And sure, it can get a little challenging when you want to tell someone about a song you like and can only describe it as, "You know, that one with the guitar?" But honestly, which would you rather have: A song title or a well-made mojito?
That's what I thought.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - Everywhere You Turn
via FoxyTunes
It's not that I was ever any kind of expert. I could never have told you who else was on the bill when Dylan went electric, or what the Kingsmen are singing in Louie Louie or what, exactly, living la vida loca entails (presumably a lot of ointment). But I used to at least know the names of the songs I was listening to.
Set the bar low. That's what I always say.
These days, though, I struggle to maintain even that much knowledge. I've bought three CDs in the last month or so and listened to each of them multiple times. I've enjoyed each of them, some a lot. And yet, off the top of my head I can come up with the titles for maybe four songs. And to be fair, that's largely because in three of them the song's title is featured in the song to an almost ridiculous degrees. For example, here's the chorus to the Black Keys song Lies: "Lies, lies, lies, oh lies." Taking credit for getting that one right feels a little like taking credit for predictions like, "I bet we'll have a new President in January" or "I bet some celebrity will get a lot of publicity for doing something embarrassing this week." It just feels hollow.
There are songs I like a lot on each of those three CDs but I'll be damned if I could name them for you.
By contrast, with roughly the same amount of thought I was able to come up with five song titles from REM's 1992 classic Automatic for the People even though I haven't listened to that CD in at least a year.
I'm not sure what this says about me as a music listener. I still believe music is important, and I still enjoy discovering new artists. But the way I listen to music is different than it used to be.
Back in my younger days I'd get a new CD or, let's face it, cassette — but only rarely an eight-track — and pop it into the player. I'd sit and listen to it while scanning through the liner notes to see if they'd included lyrics or photos or free gum or anything.
These days the liner notes don't always even make it out of the case. That is, if I have them at all.
Technology has changed things. With more and more people buying their music online, physical packaging is becoming less common. Those last three CDs I bought all involved me going to the store and bringing a CD home, but the purchased music file in my iTunes player has more than 250 songs. And even when I buy an actual CD the second thing I do usually involves transferring the music to my computer.
The first thing I do is listen to the CD in my car on the way home, but that's a process that doesn't much lend itself to in-depth reading.
The third thing I usually do is dance around in my underpants like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, but that's really neither here nor there.
One by one, it seems, song titles are being moved out of my brain and into my iPod playlist. They're still there, but I'm usually devoting my attention to something else, anyway.
I suppose this isn't all bad. Eliminating the song title section of my brain frees up more space to remember things like credit card numbers or recipes for mixed drinks.
And sure, it can get a little challenging when you want to tell someone about a song you like and can only describe it as, "You know, that one with the guitar?" But honestly, which would you rather have: A song title or a well-made mojito?
That's what I thought.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - Everywhere You Turn
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, May 01, 2008
One big biking family (jerks and all)
There are a lot of things I like about biking. I like that it keeps me in shape, that it allows me to go fast and that it provides an excuse to wear stretchy shorts in public.
I'm not crazy about being honked at or run off the road by drivers with more pent-up anger than common sense, but sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.
I also like the fact just about anyone can do it. Outside of foot power, a bicycle is just about the most universal mode of transportation around.
I was reminded of this last Sunday morning as I shook off the effects of a Saturday night dinner that prominently featured Belgian beer to ride in the Minnesota Ironman, the popular bike ride that begins each April at Lakeville High School.
Pedaling the 100 or so miles of my particular route provided a pretty fair overview of the bicycle community. As I rode I passed entire families on bicycles, mothers and fathers pedaling full-size bicycles while children pedaled furiously to keep up on their BMX bikes. I passed fit men and women wearing high-tech bike gear and pedaling bikes that cost as much as a decent used car and others who appeared to be making an effort to get into better shape, toiling on bikes that hadn't left the garage in months. Some of the latter reminded of that song about the ant and the rubber-tree plant. I'm not sure if they had high hopes of finishing or of just avoiding the emergency room. For a few, either one might have been an accomplishment.
I passed more than one person making the ride in jeans, which brought to mind horrifying visions of the chafing that no doubt awaited them.
About the only thing missing was a senior citizen on one of those gigantic tricycle deals with the basket on front.
We were like one big family out there. Together we braved wind and cold and red, stinging thighs. I'm sure we didn't all finish, but we all tried. And that's worth something.
Bikers get a bad rap sometimes. As I write this, KSTP TV is preparing to air an investigative report it has titled, "Bicyclists breaking the law." In it, the station's hard-hitting investigators point a long, shaming finger at cyclists who don't come to a complete stop at intersections.
Fair enough. I'll admit I haven't stopped at every single stop sign I've seen — momentum is a beautiful thing. But I also know as a driver I've never once been inconvenienced by a biker breaking the rules of the road. I have, however, been riding my bike legally only to have an angry motorist flash me an obscene gesture and threaten to run me off the road. I've had a driver yell at me for running a stop light while I was stopped at a light. And my brother once smashed his bike into a car when it made a last-second right turn from the left lane in front of him.
There are bikers who are jerks just like there are drivers who are too aggressive. Maybe this isn't as obvious as I think it should be, but the average bicyclist has no interest in being hit by a car. The odds just aren't in our favor. We just want to ride.
Well, ride and wear stretchy shorts.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - How To Disappear Completely
via FoxyTunes
I'm not crazy about being honked at or run off the road by drivers with more pent-up anger than common sense, but sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.
I also like the fact just about anyone can do it. Outside of foot power, a bicycle is just about the most universal mode of transportation around.
I was reminded of this last Sunday morning as I shook off the effects of a Saturday night dinner that prominently featured Belgian beer to ride in the Minnesota Ironman, the popular bike ride that begins each April at Lakeville High School.
Pedaling the 100 or so miles of my particular route provided a pretty fair overview of the bicycle community. As I rode I passed entire families on bicycles, mothers and fathers pedaling full-size bicycles while children pedaled furiously to keep up on their BMX bikes. I passed fit men and women wearing high-tech bike gear and pedaling bikes that cost as much as a decent used car and others who appeared to be making an effort to get into better shape, toiling on bikes that hadn't left the garage in months. Some of the latter reminded of that song about the ant and the rubber-tree plant. I'm not sure if they had high hopes of finishing or of just avoiding the emergency room. For a few, either one might have been an accomplishment.
I passed more than one person making the ride in jeans, which brought to mind horrifying visions of the chafing that no doubt awaited them.
About the only thing missing was a senior citizen on one of those gigantic tricycle deals with the basket on front.
We were like one big family out there. Together we braved wind and cold and red, stinging thighs. I'm sure we didn't all finish, but we all tried. And that's worth something.
Bikers get a bad rap sometimes. As I write this, KSTP TV is preparing to air an investigative report it has titled, "Bicyclists breaking the law." In it, the station's hard-hitting investigators point a long, shaming finger at cyclists who don't come to a complete stop at intersections.
Fair enough. I'll admit I haven't stopped at every single stop sign I've seen — momentum is a beautiful thing. But I also know as a driver I've never once been inconvenienced by a biker breaking the rules of the road. I have, however, been riding my bike legally only to have an angry motorist flash me an obscene gesture and threaten to run me off the road. I've had a driver yell at me for running a stop light while I was stopped at a light. And my brother once smashed his bike into a car when it made a last-second right turn from the left lane in front of him.
There are bikers who are jerks just like there are drivers who are too aggressive. Maybe this isn't as obvious as I think it should be, but the average bicyclist has no interest in being hit by a car. The odds just aren't in our favor. We just want to ride.
Well, ride and wear stretchy shorts.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - How To Disappear Completely
via FoxyTunes
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